


Drabbles

by runsinthefamily



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drabbles, Fluff, Porn, all the bits that dont fit, pretty much everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:28:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much all the smaller bits from the kmeme that don't fit any of my ongoing series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coming Down

Varric burst through Hawke's front door, unslinging Bianca in one fluid motion. She sprang open in his hands, quivering, ready for battle. His girl was the best.

The huge crash he'd heard as he'd come up the steps had made him sure that Hawke was fighting off slavers or bandits or, Maker forbid, Templars, but there was a distinct lack of blood and body parts in the foyer. What there was, instead, was the chandelier. On the floor. In bits. And tangled up in the bits, looking sheepish and dazed, was a gormless blonde dwarf and a cute Dalish elf.

"Oh dear," said Merrill.

"Not enchantment," agreed Sandal.

Varric put Bianca up, patting her in apology for getting her riled up over nothing. "What the hell happened here, Daisy?"

Merrill took his proffered hand and let him drag her out of the ruins of the chandelier. "Well, Bodahn was out, and he asked me to entertain Sandal, and when I got tired of looking at bits of metal and runes and such, I thought, oh, I know what I haven't done in a while, and I forgot that the reason I hadn't done it was that Hawke said not to, and the reason she said not to was that last time there was a shower of plaster dust and this time it was more of an avalanche of plaster rocks and then we were all coming down very quickly. Is Sandal alright?"

Sandal was standing in the middle of the ruin, picking tiny pieces of wax out of his sleeves.

"Looks fine to me," said Varric.

"Do you think we might get this cleaned up before Hawke gets home?" Merrill asked hopefully.

The front door opened.

"What in the name of Andraste's sweaty smallclothes is going on here?"

Merrill cringed.

"Tough go, Daisy," said Varric, backing toward the pantry and the secret entrance to Lowtown. "Much as I'd love to stay and assist ..."

Hawke came striding in, fully armored and eyes blazing, staff in hand. She stopped in the doorway, surveying the scene. There was an awful silence.

"The lady made me do it!"

"I wasn't here, Hawke, I swear on Bianca's triggerguard!"

"Ooooh, Marion, I know I promised not to do it again, I'm so sorry!"

Hawke held up a hand, and they all stuttered into silence again. "I'm going upstairs," she said with dreadful calm. "I'm going to have a bath and then I'm going to go to sleep and when I wake up? This will not have happened. I don't care how you do it or who you have to pay. Just. Fix. It."

She walked past them toward the stairs. When her armored boot hit a twisted length of metal that had once supported a candleholder, the thing ricocheted off the writing desk hard enough to leave a gouge in the wood.

No one moved until the door upstairs closed with heavy finality. Then Varric sighed.

"Alright, Sandal, start picking up the bits. Daisy, how about you freeze the wax so it comes off clean, and I'll go see about an all-night chandelier installer."


	2. Microwank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mutual wanking.

Marian twists in her sheets, toes curling, fingers slipping up and down her slit. Her eyes are shut tight, her forehead creased.  
 _  
Anders lunged forward, sealed his mouth to hers, and kissed her within an inch of her life. "We could die tomorrow," he breathed against her. "I didn't want it to be before ..."_

 _She cut him off with another kiss, winding her hands into his hair, tearing the tie out, plundering him as fervently as he'd plundered her. The clinic was empty, the door locked. "No more waiting," she mumbled against his lips. "Now, Anders."_

 _His only response was a moan._

 _They tore at one another's clothing, wrestling buckles and ripping laces. His great, padded, concealing coat she flung across the room with all the force of three years' frustrated speculation. Underneath, he was spare and lean and hard. She ran her hands up his back, feeling the flex and shiver. He bit her lightly under her ear and chuckled as she shuddered and made a strangled, needy, sound._

 _He spread her shirt and bent her backwards to run his tongue over a nipple while his thumb teased the other to hard, puckered attention. All the while she tugged his pants, pushing her hands down the back and clutching his firm buttocks. When she slid them around to the front and clasped his cock he bit her again, less gently._

 _"Just ... fuck me, Anders," she said. "Oh, Maker, just fuck me."_

 _"Yes," he said. He skinned her pants down and she kicked them to the side. His followed a heartbeat later. He hoisted her, pushed her against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist._

Marian sped her fingers, circling her clit.  
 _  
He was in her in one long stroke, and it was so magnificently satisfying that Marian thought she might just die right then. He gasped, his fingers bruising her ass where he held her up. Then he began to move, driving her against the wall. She arched her back, tilted her hips, and found the angle where he brushed past her clit on every stroke._

 _"Marion," he said, breathed, prayed. After that, they didn't speak, only panted and gasped and made inarticulate cries. Three years of aching, of wanting, of not having ..._

Marian archs up in her bed, teeth clenched, rubbing desperately.

 _They come. She comes, he comes. The world flies apart and reassembles itself into a place where they are still coming. They will come forever, until the stars rain down, until ..._

"Love, did you eat the rest of the apple tart?"

Anders's voice penetrates her pre-orgasmic haze and all the beautiful, rising tension bleeds out in a rush. Marian collapses to the bed and curses. The door opens and he peers around the jamb.

"Because I looked in the pantry and ... oh." One eyebrow goes up. "Oh, my, Miss Hawke," he says, taking in her naked, disheveled sweatiness. "What have you been up to?"

"Entertaining myself," she says waspishly. "Since I can't compete with manifestos and apple tart."

There is a brief flash of guilt in his eyes, followed immediately by speculation. "Reeeeally," he drawls and steps into the room. "And what filthy little scene were you imagining, hmm?"

"Fenris," she says, hanging onto the shreds of her anger with difficulty. He's wearing loose pants and a threadbare shirt, and she can see the shadows of his nipples through the cloth.

"Ouch," he says. "I guess that's what I deserve for interrupting."

"Fenris," she says again, eyes narrowing. "On his knees, tongue inside me."

He stops by the fireplace. She sees him swallow. She smiles, slowly.

"And you watching," she continues. "Standing right there." She flexes her hand and slips it back down between her legs. "He's licking me, but I'm keeping my eyes on you. Because you're getting hard."

He is. The look on his face is electrifying, half a snarl, half a smile, his nostrils flaring.

"You take your cock out," she says.

He turns and for a moment she is afraid that she's pushed too hard, but all he does is retrieve the chair from her desk and plant it in the spot by the fire. He unlaces his shirt, lets it drop open to frame his torso, and then sits. Slowly, deliberately, he undoes his pants, shifts them low on his hips, frees his - oh, yes - erection from their confines, and begins to stroke. Light flickers between his fingers and there is a sudden wet sound to his movement.

"Yes," says Marian. Her fingers are in motion again. "I've got my hands in his hair, I'm directing him. He's - he's eager but not very skilled. Uh. I have to, to, show him where. And then he's on my clit, Maker, and his tongue speeds up."

Anders lifts his hips from the chair a little, his free hand gripping the armrest.

"And I'm - I'm close but I can't get there, and you can see it."

"Lick her harder," says Anders. His voice is strained and rough.

Marian lets her head fall back. Her fingers are a blur.

"Put your fingers in," he orders.

She brings her other hand down and slides two fingers into the wet, oh Maker so wet.

"He, he obeys," she says, her voice a thin whine.

"Make her wait," says Anders. "Make her wait until I, until, until ... ah, Marion!" He comes, semen pulsing from his fist onto his stomach, over his fingers.

She comes too, a dagger thrust of pleasure that takes her voice and tenses every muscle before releasing her to fall back, panting.

At last, he stirs, pulls himself out of the chair and stumbles to the bed, wiping himself clean with his shirt. "You," he says, tossing the shirt aside and stripping his pants off, "are a very, very bad woman."

She laughs and holds out her arms. He settles into them and kisses her.

"Fenris would be so pissed if he knew," she muses.

"Well, next time make it Sebastian," says Anders. "Or, ooh, Isabella!"

"Cullen," says Marian.

Anders abruptly rolls onto her, and she feels the resurgence of his interest against her thigh. "Very, very bad," he murmurs, and kisses her.


	3. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaangst

Every time he kisses her, she knows.

For months he's barely touched her, barely slept, hardly even tended his clinic. Growing thinner, more haggard. He's like old linen, threadbare and fraying, and Justice the the weight that relentlessly wears away at the threads.

When he lies about the potion, she knows. Of course she knows. But she smiles and nods and hopes, desperately, that when he's done with whatever Justice is driving him toward, that he will come back, at least a little bit.

And briefly, it seems like her hopes have not been in vain. One night not long after they gather his troubling ingredients, he comes home early with the light still in the sky. She looks up from her desk as he walks into the room and sees his face, filled with love and humor and want and she throws herself into his arms.

 _Anders_ , she says, breathless.

 _I'm here, love,_ he says.

And she dies inside, because she knows. How can she not? But she banishes tears, smiles at him, loves him as hard as she can. When they arch against one another, gasping, pleading, praying, she pretends that she doesn't hear the words behind his words, the truth underneath the lie.

 _Forever_ , he says, and she hears only, _Goodbye._


	4. Weather the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela comforts Hawke.

"Hawke!" Isabela sang out as she closed the estate door behind her. "The wine seller had a bottle of that Orlesian spiced rum you like. I thought maybe we could get naked and drink the lot!"

She stepped into the main hall and saw Hawke, sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, rubbing hastily at her cheeks, her head turned away.

"Oh," said Isabela. _I always did have shit timing._

"I'm fine," said Hawke, waving one hand at Isabela. "Fine, I just ... rum, hey? Sounds g-great."

"You always were a terrible liar," said Isabela. She came across the room, sat down next to Hawke, and pulled the other woman against her. "Go ahead and cry, I promise I won't tell."

"I thought I was done with this," Hawke burst out, wiping at fresh tears. "Y-you mourn and, and then you go on. It's been almost a year, and I was doing fine." She plucked a small package out of her lap, a wooden box stamped with ornate lettering. "I forgot," she said. "Mother's yearly order from that stupid Orlesian parfumier. No one thought to cancel it. She always got s-so damned excited when it showed up." Her speech was getting more blurred with grief, harder to understand. "There's still a bottle of it up there, in her room. More than half full. She never got to use it. F-fucking perfume, Izzy." Hawke clutched the box to her chest and hunched over it as if it were a mortal wound.

"Oh, sweetheart," said Isabela. "Come on, hug something better." She pried the box away from Hawke and gathered her up in her arms. "Life can be shit, sometimes," she said, rocking Hawke.

Hawke mumbled something incomprehensible, weeping harder. _Sorry_ had been in there, and _weak._

Isabela blew out a breath. "Friends can be shit, too," she said. "We just - we're used to you being the strong one. Maker's ass, that sounds terrible coming out of my mouth."

"I don't, I can't ..."

"Oh shut up and cry, will you?" said Isabela, hugging her harder. She dropped a kiss on Hawke's tousled hair. "Let me do this for you," she said, more quietly.

Hawke wept for what seemed like hours, her body shaking, her face hot and damp against Isabela's skin. When she finally wound down she was limp and exhausted, meek as a kitten. Isabela got her off the hall floor, up the stairs, and into bed. She curled up in the sheet, watching Isabela with huge, mournful eyes.

"Stay?" It was hardly louder than a whisper.

Isabela looked down at her, sighed again, and began to strip. "I never could say no to you," she said.

"Thanks, Iz," said Hawke, turning over to let Isabela spoon her.

"Shush now," said Isabela.

Hawke fell asleep almost instantly, but Isabela lay awake long into the night, wrestling with herself, trying not to think about what she was doing here, comforting, caring.

Hawke made a small, distressed noise, and Isabela stroked her hair gently until she quieted again.

 _Well, shit._

"I'm in love," she said to the silent room.


	5. Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett sure is ... flexible.

"Anders."

Anders blinked, sat up, and tried to look as if he hadn't been staring. "Yes, love?"

"You were staring," Garrett said. A smirk played around the corner of his mouth.

"It really is difficult not to," Anders complained. "If you're going to strip half naked and writhe around on the floor."

"I thought you were busy," said Garrett. He tucked one arm behind his head, the other behind his back, and clasped his hands together. "With your writing."

"I am," said Anders, watching the play of firelight across Garrett's chest. "Very busy."

"Don't let me disturb you, then," said Garrett. "I'm just a bit stiff. Wanted to stretch everything out a bit before bed. You know, limber up." He rolled his shoulders, bent sideways from the waist one way and then the other.

"Right," said Anders. "Right." He dragged his eyes away and looked back down at the paper. Where was he at? Oh, yes, comparing Andraste's miracles to spells.

There was a slight scuffing noise, then a quiet grunt, followed by a long, controlled exhalation.

He was not going to look. Not going to.

Another small, contented sound, this one much closer to the floor.

Anders clenched his fist around the quill, and then darted a look over his shoulder.

Garrett was on his knees, body laid out between his legs, arms stretched out along the floor above his head. His forehead was pressed to the carpet. As Anders watched, he arched his back just a little and sighed. Muscles rippled.

 _Like a cat._

"What was that?" Garrett pushed himself up to sit on his haunches, one hand rising to smooth away the lock of hair that always fell in his face. His green eyes were slightly lidded and that smirk was back again. "I didn't quite catch it."

Anders realized he'd spoken that last thought aloud. "You're like a cat," he said. His voice had gone all thick.

Garrett quirked an eyebrow. Then he dropped back down and slinked across the carpet on hands and knees. "Am I?" he asked in a low rumble. "Shall I act like one, then? Sit on your face until you give me what I want?"

"Head," said Anders.

"Well, that'll do for a start," agreed Garrett, halting at Anders's knees.

"No, it's sit on my head," said Anders, wondering whether to laugh or to just fall on Garrett and take him right on the floor.

"I like my version better," said Garrett.

"I really need to - "

Garrett put his hands onto Anders's thighs, pressed their bodies together, and put his lips to Anders's ear. "Meow," he said.

"Augh," said Anders, tossed the quill aside, and gave in.


	6. Better Than the Real Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexy nurse, sexy policewoman, sexy ... Champion?

"What in Andraste's name is this?"

The package was large and gaudy and had a crude picture of, yes, that was supposed to be her, a Qunari head swinging bloodily from one hand and a ridiculous sword in the other.

"I don't even use a sword. And I never swung the Arishock's head around like a flail. And my tits are nowhere near that big!"

Varric leaned pat her hip and looked at the thing. "Huh," he said. "Are you getting a cut of this action?"

"What?"

"Well, that's you," he said, pointing.

"Barely!"

"Alright, but still - you. You should go down and kick open their door and demand 20 percent."

"I'm more likely to demand some blood," said Hawke. She flipped open the card. "'Sweet thing, I couldn't not buy this, wear it to the Hanged Man tonight and I will make sure you can't walk straight for a week.'"

She and Varris eyed the package silently for a moment.

"If you aren't going to open it," said Varric, reaching out.

"Maker dammit," muttered Hawke, and ripped the paper open.

Inside was a linen bag, with the words 'Hubert's Specialty Goods' emblazoned on it in cheap dye. This was already not good. Inside the bag, sharp pointy things clanked together. She upended it onto the floor.

They spent some time sorting the bits out and when it was done, laid out on the rug in order, Hawke sucked thoughtfully on her bottom lip and stared.

"Well, it's ... accurate. In a way," said Varric.

"I don't know who to murder first," said Hawke. "Isabela, for buying this, or Hubert, for making it."

"Look, they even got the raggedy skirt bit right," said Varric.

"I mean, what the fuck. What the fuck!"

"He has a whole line of this stuff," said Varric. "Templar armor, Chantry robes, famous armor of the ages, that sort of shit. I guess it was inevitable."

Hawke's head turned slowly and with terrible deliberation. "Are you telling me," she said, "are you intimating, Varric, that there are more of these ... _things_ , out there? That anyone can dress up as the Slutty Champion?"

Varric spread his hands. "I don't judge," he said. "My girlfriend is a crossbow."

Hawke's lips were drawn back from her teeth in an all-too-familiar way. "Hubert," she said. "Hubert first."

"Aveline's not going to be happy!" he shouted after her as she left the estate, spinning her daggers in her hands. He sighed. If he ran, he might make it to the Hanged Man in time to give Isabela a head start.


	7. I feel your thumbs press into my skin again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill's rivalmance, post-game.
> 
> Title is from ‘Welcome Home’ by Radical Face.

She stands at the window and watches the work go on at the Chantry - what used to be the Chantry. Her hands cup her elbows, she holds her arms tightly to her. Even in the velvet and wool gowns she wears she’s never warm enough these days, not unless Hawke is holding her. And he’s so busy, with the clean up and the rebuilding and the nobles and there isn’t any room for her in any of that. She drifts around the Viscount’s Keep like a spirit, and isn’t that ironic?

Varric still calls her Daisy but she feels like a dandelion, all gone to seed and mostly blown away. Her clan, her mirror, her purpose, even her demon, all gone. Isabela had chucked her under the chin and plied her with Corff’s terrible whiskey and invited her along on the Siren’s Cry but of course she couldn’t leave Hawke. Fenris left with Isabela. Sebastian is away, taking back Starkhaven. Anders is ash and memory. Aveline comes to the Keep less and less and when she does, the shouting in the Viscount’s office is enough to make even Bran whey-faced and eager to find tasks that take him away from the vicinity.

Often Hawke seeks her out after those fights, wraps his arms around her and holds her close and puts his face into her hair. “You’re all I have left,” he murmurs and she closes her eyes and holds him back and tries, so hard, to feel real.


	8. A Kiss with a Fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the kmeme:
> 
>  _A weekly meet up at the Hangman and Hawke without Fenris comes in with a black eye. He refuses to tell on how he got it and the companions begin to try and work out._
> 
>  _They come up with increasingly bizzare ways of him being injured and then Fenris comes in. They ask and Fenris tells them that Hawke got it during sex._
> 
>  _-Flashback on the sex and how Hawke got it._

"Sex," said Isabela.

Hawke rolled his eyes. The left was somewhat obscured by the swollen lid and deep bruising that surrounded it.

"Bandits," said Varric. "No? Gangs? Carta?"

"Someone finally got tired of your tongue?" Aveline crossed her arms.

"Is that even possible?" Hawke smirked.

"Trust me," said Aveline.

"Did you walk into a door?" Merrill folded her legs up under her. "You are very large, I often wonder how you manage not to run into things."

"No doors," said Hawke.

"I'm sure that it was in the service of a good cause," said Sebastian.

"No causes," said Hawke.

"I still don't see why you won't let me heal it," said Anders. "It has to hurt."

"Oh, it does," said Hawke. "And I'm milking it for all its worth."

The door opened, revealing Fenris. "What?" he said flatly as all eyes went to him.

"You must know, Broody," said Varric. "What happened to Hawke's face?"

Fenris, amazingly, flushed a dark red. "I do not wish to speak of it."

"He refuses to kiss it better, too," said Hawke.

"I knew it!" Isabela crowed. "It was sex, wasn't it? Dirty, dangerous, raunchy sex. Did you fall off the bed? Did you forget the safe word, Hawke?"

Hawke raised an eyebrow at Fenris who glowered back at him warningly.

 _The sun on his back, the crash of the waves down below, the scratch and grit of the sand beneath his knees. Fenris moaned desperately below him, a naked, raw sound so removed from the guarded control he usually clung to. Hawke opened his throat and took Fenris another inch, burying his nose into silky black hair. Fenris arched his back, groaned Hawke's name ..._

 _...and then abruptly turned into a flail of brown, lyrium laced, limbs. Hawke choked, reared back, caught a flying knee in the face and fell backward onto the sand, clutching his face._

 _"Bee!" Fenris cried. "Bee!" He ducked his head, flapped his hands wildly, and then flung himself behind Hawke._

 _The insect buzzed, bobbed, and then was pinned to a sun-bleached bit of wood with a flung dagger._

 _"Really, Fenris?" asked Hawke, wincing._

 _Fenris straightened, lifting his chin in a manner reminiscent of a ruffled cat. "They sting."_

"A gentleman never tells," said Hawke, ignoring Isabela's pout.

Fenris's scowl melted into a small, rueful smile. He stepped over, kissed Hawke very gently next to his swollen eye, and then sat. "I believe this conversation is over."

Hawke smiled down at his cards.


End file.
